


Nothing If Not Dutiful

by Elsajeni



Category: Star Wars Legends: X-Wing Series - Aaron Allston & Michael Stackpole
Genre: M/M, Missing Scene, Oral Sex, Stress Relief, Wraith Squadron (Star Wars)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-08
Updated: 2020-02-08
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:54:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22606573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elsajeni/pseuds/Elsajeni
Summary: "I've got work to do," Wedge protests. "I should be keeping an eye on the Wraiths. Checking in on Dia. Getting that— oh, shavit, thatletter—""It can wait," Wes says firmly, pushing the jacket back off his shoulders. "It'sgoingto wait. You're taking a night off."An XO's whole purpose is to maintain his commander's sanity, right? Wes has been keeping an eye on Wedge's stress levels, and it's clearly time he takes matters into his own hands. (And mouth. And so forth.)
Relationships: Wedge Antilles/Wes Janson
Comments: 10
Kudos: 24
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 5





	Nothing If Not Dutiful

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kaerstyne](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaerstyne/gifts).



"I'm going to draw up a preliminary plan of operation for this mission and see if I can get Admiral Ackbar to sign off on it," Wedge says, and feels himself sag a little. The brief, electric surge of energy that came with figuring out Zsinj's plan is fading, replaced with the certainty of looming datawork. Reports. Logistics. Letters he doesn't want to write.

"For my part," Wes says, "I'll get some sleep."

"You'll calculate which routes Zsinj is likely to take in his escape from Kuat and suggest some fleet deployments that give us the best likelihood of being able to encounter him."

He might, a little bit, be deliberately trying to dent Wes's good cheer. It's not particularly mature of him, or particularly good leadership. But it's been a hell of a day, and one of the privileges of command is the ability to spread a bad mood around, and he can't quite resist.

It doesn't work, anyway. Wes shrugs and says, "Which is something like sleep, but less interesting," still cheerful, and when Wedge turns to head back toward his office, Wes follows a half-step behind him.

The office door slides open, and Wedge groans. He'd forgotten, for a second, about the mess he made of the desk earlier. And now he has work to do, and his office looks like it's been the target of a small bomb or highly localized windstorm, and he's going to have to pick all of this _up_ before he can even _start_ on the damned mission plan, let alone all the rest of the work he should be doing, let alone the fucking _letter_ —

"Whoa," Wes says from just behind him, and then, "Yeah, okay, you're not writing that mission proposal right now. Come with me."

"It's got to get done," Wedge protests as Wes takes his elbow and steers him away down the corridor, the abandoned office door sliding shut again.

"It will," Wes assures him, and keeps moving.

"Where are we going?"

By the time he finishes asking, the answer is obvious. "Right here," Wes says, and keys in a code that he absolutely isn't supposed to know, opening the door in front of them.

Wedge frowns. "These are my quarters."

"Yes?" Wes is already halfway inside, tugging Wedge after him. "What, are you waiting for an invitation from yourself? Come on."

Wedge follows, still sort of confused but figuring he can demand an explanation just as well in private. Less risk that some of the Wraiths will wander by and leap to conclusions, at least. He shuts the door behind them and says, "Wes. What are you doing?"

Wes reaches past him to key the door lock, crowding Wedge back against the wall, and gives him a grin. "Nothing to worry about," he says, the grin turning impish. "A little harmless mutiny. Take that uniform off, will you?"

"Wes," Wedge says again, and then can't think of anything to follow it with. Wes is very close, his arm almost resting on Wedge's waist where he reached past to hit the door controls, his other hand coming up to toy with the zip on Wedge's jacket as if he's making up his mind whether to undo it. Wedge can feel the warmth coming off him, smell the oil he uses in his hair. And it's not as if he doesn't know that Wes is casual about... this sort of thing. Casual touch, casual affection, casual sex. And it's not as if he hasn't noticed how Wes _looks_ — the solid weight of muscle, the steady hands, the easy grin. He'd just thought— hoped, maybe— that long acquaintance had made him immune.

He's definitely not immune.

"I've got work to do," he protests.

Wes tilts his head and finally does start on the zip, pulling it down slowly. "I'm not actually hearing a 'no'."

"I should be keeping an eye on the Wraiths. Checking in on Dia. Getting that— oh, shavit, that _letter_ —"

"It can wait," Wes says firmly, pushing the jacket back off his shoulders. "It's _going_ to wait. You're taking a night off." He tosses Wedge's jacket aside, and then his hands are back on Wedge's shoulders, sliding down his arms, fingers digging into the muscles there. They're very warm against his skin; he finds himself relaxing into the touch, and sucks in a startled breath when Wes shifts his grip and pushes him back and down, steering him to sit on the edge of his bed.

"Wes," he says, dry-mouthed. "What are you doing?"

"You're tense," Wes says— not inaccurately; Wedge is aware of his muscles tightening under Wes's grip, his shoulders inching up toward his ears. But clearly Wes doesn't just mean _your shoulders, right now_ , because he goes on, "You're forgetting things. Snapping at people. You, the most level-headed man in Starfighter Command, wrecked up your office. Take off your shirt."

"What does my shirt have to do with my stress levels?" He's obeying, though, even as he says it, even as he thinks _I probably shouldn't be doing this_.

Wes steps closer— _very_ close, one leg slipping between Wedge's knees— and runs a hand down Wedge's bare chest. "Oh, that's nice," he breathes, with a broad, easy smile. "You know, it's not that I _miss_ the old shared-quarters days, but I used to see you shirtless all the time. Promotion has its downsides."

"There used to always be two other guys in the room, too," Wedge points out, because he _definitely_ doesn't miss the old shared-quarters days. "Four or five other guys, on Hoth."

"Well, I didn't say it was _all_ downside." Wes is leaning in as he says it, scraping teeth down the side of Wedge's neck, sucking a mark onto his collarbone— careful to choose a spot where it'll be covered by his uniform shirt, Wedge notes appreciatively. And then he's working his way lower, biting and licking down Wedge's chest, sinking to his knees.

"Hold on," Wedge says, and then, when Wes's palm grazes over his cock through his pants, "Oh— _sithspit_ —"

Wes laughs, leaving his hand there, pressing harder. His other hand comes up to tug at Wedge's waistband, works the button loose. "This okay?" he asks, and the cocky grin on his face says he's pretty confident the answer is yes. "Or do you still want me to hold on?"

"Oh, fuck," Wedge groans, dropping back onto his elbows and rocking his hips up against Wes's hand, "yeah, yes, just. I just don't— why _tonight_ , all of a sudden. Something especially attractive about me trashing my desk and trying to pick a fight with you?"

"That's what I was saying," Wes says; he's got Wedge's fly open, and his hand wraps firmly around Wedge's cock and draws it out of his pants, working slowly, _slowly_ up and down. "About stress. You need a break, a little stress relief. And—" He ducks in and licks a stripe up the underside of Wedge's cock, draws the head of it into his mouth just for a second, comes up with a grin when Wedge swears and bucks up off the bed a little. "It's my responsibility as XO to see to my commander's sanity. So sit down, shut up and be seen to, will you?"

His hand is still working, a slow, teasing rhythm. Wedge groans, and then, all at once, sits up and puts his hand over Wes's, stilling it. It's hard to make himself do it— he _wants_ to let him, to shut his eyes and lean back on the bed and rut up into Wes's hand. But he doesn't like the sound of that, _my responsibility_. It sticks uncomfortably in his throat, makes the pleasure of Wes stroking him curdle and turn sour.

Wes makes a noise of protest, trying to shake his hand free. Wedge raises his other hand to tangle in Wes's hair, pulling his head back, making his point clear; Wes strains against his grip just for a second, but goes still as soon as he catches Wedge's gaze, his face suddenly sober. "Something wrong?"

Too many somethings. It takes Wedge a second to figure out where to start. "I'm not your responsibility," he says eventually.

Wes snorts. "Well, you've got to be _someone's_. I know what you're like when you're left to your own devices."

" _This_ ," Wedge tries again, gesturing vaguely between the two of them, "isn't— I don't expect any kind of—"

"Of course not," Wes agrees readily, which is some comfort. "Wedge, come on, I know you better than that."

"Then—" Wedge breaks off, a new potential horror dawning on him. Wes, like him, joined up young; the thought of some previous commander, early in his career, trying an even nastier version of Repness's little quid-pro-quo game, giving him the impression that _duty_ encompassed...

"Wes," he says, keeping his tone as even and serious as he can manage. "Is this something we need to talk about? Was there... if you heard something like this from some other officer, someone who _did_ expect..."

He trails off around there, because Wes is laughing, turning his head to press his face into Wedge's thigh. "Oh, shavit," he says, shaking his head. "I should've known you'd be too morally upright for this game. Wedge, can't you just play along?"

Wedge hesitates. "Game," he echoes. "And that's all it is? You're sure?"

"Come on," Wes says, the grin starting to steal back across his face. "How long have you known me? When have you seen me do anything I don't want to do?"

Wedge raises his eyebrows. "I'm casting my mind back a whole six hours," he says dryly. "Something about 'Wes Janson, Ace Statistician'?"

Wes rolls his eyes. " _Besides_ on orders."

"That's what I want to be sure we're clear about." Wedge still has his hand in Wes's hair, he realizes; he loosens his grip, cards his fingers through it gently. "There's no orders here. No question about whether this is _actually_ a duty. Right?"

Wes laughs again. "You're a hard man to tease," he complains. "No, Wedge. No orders. Not a duty. I do think I'm giving you something you need, but I'm doing it because I want to." He looks up, and the grin dips a little, uncertain. "Are we okay? On the same page?"

Wedge sighs, tipping his head back, and slips his hand down from where it rests in Wes's hair to cup the back of his neck instead, affectionate and a little proprietary. "On the same page," he agrees.

He tightens his grip on Wes's neck, digs his fingers in a little and tugs forward, and Wes makes a low, pleased noise in the back of his throat and goes where he's led.

Wedge keeps his controlling grip on Wes's neck only for a minute, just long enough to give Wes a general idea of where to start— _touch me here, use your mouth like this, harder than that, I can take it_. Then he slides his hand up into Wes's hair, and down to cup his cheek, at once a caress and a handing-over of control.

Wes looks up at him, dark-eyed and smiling, and takes the lead with _enthusiasm_.

It's hard, at first. Wedge finds himself wanting to reach out for Wes again, take back the reins, tangle a hand in his hair and set his own rhythm. But— _sit down, shut up and be seen to_ , that's what Wes wants from him, isn't it? And it does feel good, everything Wes is doing, every twist of his wrist and roll of his tongue— good, _better_ than good, even when he backs off again to that slow, teasing pace and steadfastly ignores Wedge's pleading to go faster.

Besides, when he does start to raise a hand toward Wes's hair, Wes grabs both his wrists and pins them to the bed, in one smooth movement and without breaking the rhythm of his mouth on Wedge's cock.

Wedge makes a noise that is absolutely not a whine and jerks his hips, trying for more heat, more friction, _more_. In answer, Wes pulls off entirely, leaving him suddenly gasping and desperate, and gives him a disapproving look.

"You," he says, in a lecturing sort of tone— maybe the same one he uses on trainee pilots, Wedge thinks, with the few spare brain cells that aren't solely dedicated to trying to will Wes's mouth back around his cock— "are _terrible_ at this game." And then, gentler, "Wedge. Do you trust me? Let me take care of you."

It's not that Wes is never serious, or that Wedge has never seen him that way. They've been at war the whole time they've known each other, after all. But he's developed a sense for the things Wes deems important enough not to joke about, and there aren't that many of them. Sex certainly isn't on the list, at least not normally.

But Wes's voice is soft, low. Urgent. And when Wedge looks down at him, there's something unexpectedly earnest in his face. _Casual affection_ , Wedge had thought earlier, but there's nothing casual in this, is there?

It aches a little, the open caring in Wes's face. _He_ aches. Maybe he does need this— or maybe Wes needs it, needs something he can take care of, something to go right. Maybe both of them do.

"Okay," he says, quietly, and lets himself relax into Wes's hands.

It doesn't come naturally to him. He keeps catching himself trying to fight it, take the lead, set his own pace. But Wes is— not _careful_ with him exactly, but gentle, slow, teasing him right up to the edge and then backing off, again and again, and gradually Wedge surrenders to the pleasure of it, to trusting, _knowing_ , that Wes will take good care of him.

He's aware, vaguely, of Wes tugging his pants down a little further, giving himself more room to work. (Just far enough, and it feels more exposed than if he were just naked, somehow— something about the desperation it implies, that he couldn't even wait to finish undressing.) He's aware of Wes pushing him back on the bed, tilting his hips up; aware of Wes's hand working his cock, hot and slick, and then Wes's mouth again as the hand slides down to cup his balls, to tease at his entrance. But mostly it's dreamlike, drifting, nothing but pleasure and sensation, building and building until he bucks desperately up off the bed, shaking, and comes down Wes's throat with a hoarse shout.

Wedge settles slowly back to reality, back to himself. He's wound up sprawled back across the bed, the back of his head almost resting on the bulkhead— there's a pillow behind his head that he doesn't remember putting there. Maybe Wes did; that makes him think of Wes saying _let me take care of you_ again, the low urgency in his voice, and the memory stirs something warm and comfortable in his chest.

Wes is still kneeling between his legs. He's breathing hard, and when Wedge cranes his neck to look he sees that Wes's eyes are closed, his face flushed. Sees the telltale movement of his arm, too, where his right hand disappears below the edge of the bed.

Wedge nudges him with one knee. "Hey."

"Shh."

"Hey. Come up here."

"Let me—" Wes breaks off, panting, and bites at his lower lip. Wedge wonders if he's bothered to get his own pants off, or if he's in the same state as Wedge, half-dressed and hurried.

Well, one way to find out. Wedge pushes off from the bulkhead behind him and sits up, cups a hand around the back of Wes's neck again. "Don't argue," he says, and tugs Wes up and into his lap— he does still have his pants on, it turns out, hasn't even gotten his fly down. Wedge grins, bats Wes's own hand away and palms his cock through the front of his pants.

Wes makes a breathless noise. "That's not the game," he protests— but he's already rocking his hips into Wedge's grip, grinding into the palm of his hand.

"I thought the game was giving me what I want."

" _Need_ ," Wes corrects, his eyes drifting shut. "Oh, shavit..."

"And if what I _need_ —" Wedge leans in close, dropping his voice low— "is to see you make a mess of that uniform?"

"Oh _fuck_ ," Wes gasps, bucks up hard one more time into Wedge's grip, and comes in his pants, shuddering, cock twitching under Wedge's hand.

He stays where he is for a long minute, catching his breath, forehead resting against Wedge's shoulder. When he eventually sits back up, it's with a huff of a laugh. "Got what you wanted?"

Wedge grins at him. "I knew I would."

"You know me," Wes says, and gives him a drowsy, sated smile. "Nothing if not dutiful."

"That's you," Wedge agrees, laughing, and manhandles Wes back to his feet. "All right, _now_ I'm going to write up that mission proposal."

"And I really am going to get some sleep," Wes says.

"As long as you have those fleet deployments ready by the morning," Wedge says, steering him gently toward the door. "Oh— and be at the mess at eight, will you? Runt's planning something."

Wes looks stricken. "These were my last clean uniform pants."

"Oh, good news, then," Wedge says cheerily. "It's a formal occasion. Dress uniform."

"Aw, no—"

"Dutiful," Wedge reminds him, grinning, and shuts him out in the hallway before he can protest.


End file.
